At the end of a long life
the sharpened edge of time
cuts the beaded chain of memory
into tiny segments
Breath
Our breath collects in the circle
the net moves outward
pattern changing
as newcomers settle on the edges
A single thread twists free
but wind
caught
turns back to join the others
Around a point, the pattern
shapes itself netting
knitting
each generation repeating breaks and pauses
We breath to one another
new stories for old
old stories threading together
yet we keep losing the centre
The Stone Wall
She drew the stone wall
planted her brush firmly at the bottom.
“I’ll have three rows of pink carnations
six yellow roses
and a hollyhock at either end.”
A gate? Why can’t I find a gate?
One should
be able to make a gate
in a painted wall.”
She knew-knew she couldn’t
that wall was much too solid
and too high
to make a gate.
Where water falls
Where water falls
dark banks deepen
twisted roots curve
braiding together
to hold back the earth
Deep caverns fill
and the river rat
finds new dwelling places
In dank reaches
black bats gather
The otters seek new sandbars
for their morning toilet
The black bear picks his way
more carefully climbs to a ledge
where wild raspberries
ripen in August heat
Otter and me
As my white canoe tosses
I seek shelter close to the otter
Suspicious, He glides away and loneliness
tightens my throat
Ashore, I climb
to a higher ledge
waiting
for witness
Gates
She passes
The gate has been closed
he shut it
he always does shut gates
carefully checks the latch
This puzzles her
There are spaces on either side
quite wide enough for any child
or even a small woman
to slip through, and this fence
is low, not high enough
to challenge a tall man
His lawn is always tidy, grass
close clipped, yet she
has never seen him mowing.
There are frangipani trees
in his garden but no blossoms
on his lawn.
Her gate swings in the summer wind,
a panel loose and banging
a cluster of plastic pot, one rolling
Cottoneaster berries squish on the bricks
A hovea droops on a branch
over a fish pond-the pond is darkly green
mould climbs the rocks
A spider web twists, the spider lowering
his thick body over empty carcasses
Frances Sbrocchi
Poems from the Memory Bank 
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